


And the Sun and the Moon and the Stars

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 2x06, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Season/Series 02, listen the show gave us Murray's bunker and that kiss and the slamming of the bedroom door, this is my take
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: -I swear I just found everything I need, the sweat in your eyes, the blood in your veins are listening to me, well I wanna wrap it up and swim in it until I drown, my moral standing is lying downThere's a birthmark on his neck that looks like a vampire bite and she wants to fit her teeth to it. She's been thinking about that for almost two days now, turning it over in her mind on the hood of his car, in the passenger seat, in an interrogation room, and now in the spare room of an underground paranoid journalist's… bunker.She doesn't retreat. Shedoesn't.





	And the Sun and the Moon and the Stars

There's a birthmark on his neck that looks like a vampire bite and she wants to fit her teeth to it. She's been thinking about that for almost two days now, turning it over in her mind on the hood of his car, in the passenger seat, in an interrogation room, and now in the spare room of an underground paranoid journalist's… bunker.

She doesn't retreat. She _doesn't_.

She just... doesn't know the right way to tell him, "You have two little moles right there and I'm pretty sure my mouth would fit over them perfectly."

You can't just _open_ a conversation like that. Especially not after the last year, after the monster hunts and the nights she spent waiting for him and the decision she finally made to give Steve another chance. The year she spent with him. The year she _wasted—_ No, that's unkind.

Plus, Jonathan doesn’t feel the same. She doesn’t think so anyway. (That's a lie. She knows that's a lie. She saw his face less than a minute ago, awkward and shy and just edging on hopeful. But she's a wonderful liar.)

She should stay here. She should sit on this bed until morning and stay here. But, dammit, she doesn't _retreat._

Apparently neither does he, because he's standing at her door when she opens it. And then everything is his mouth and his tongue and how soft his hair is and the stubble on his jaw.

He has stubble on his jaw. Right before her mind fritzes out she files that away for later examination.

Electricity sparks its way down her spine and pools in the pit of her stomach. There's not enough air in her lungs, in the _world_ , and what there is smells like him and her arousal and her head spins. She gasps for breath and feels him smile against her mouth.

He's grasping at her, at her hips and her nightshirt and her face, trying to keep her steady, trying to pull her closer. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, barely keep herself upright, and she remembers, remembers there's a door, and beyond that door there's a bed, a bed—a _bed._ Yes, a bed. Bed good. Bed very good.

She takes a tentative step backwards and he follows eagerly and she barely gets a hand out to slam the door behind him. He's already got a hand on her thigh and when he grips and pulls she doesn't hesitate to throw it around his waist and the next thing she knows he's lifting her pushing her against the wall next to the door, and oh god, she can feel him, can feel how hard he is right up against her core, just a couple thin layers of fabric between them.

She _wants_.

Now that he's got her pinned he slows down a little bit, kisses her deeper, parts her lips and lets his tongue lick inside. It sends another jolt through her, causes her fingers to tighten in his hair, which pulls a groan from somewhere deep in his chest. She can feel it through his skin, feels herself answer in return. Her skin prickles with goosebumps that come in waves and she's seeing stars behind her eyelids and she needs a second, just a second, to catch her breath but she can't say that when his tongue is in her mouth and hers is in his and the only coordination her mouth and brain seem capable of is kissing him back. So she buries both hands fully in his hair and tugs gently until there is the barest amount of space between them and she can gulp down some air.

He's panting too, his eyes impossibly dark and impossibly wide, his lips swollen and red. They stare at each other for a long moment and she can see the words forming behind his eyes, see the questions and excuses swirling. _Trust issues, am I right?_ But she doesn't want to talk right now, she doesn't want to think, she doesn't want to do anything other than touch and taste him, so she leans forward ever so slightly and captures his bottom lip between her teeth and pulls gently.

A shudder racks his entire body and his hips surge up into hers.

" _F_ - _fuck_ —" he stutters out and presses her harder into the wall as he kisses her again.

 _Yes,_ she thinks. _Fuck._

She's trying to tug the bottom of his shirt out of from where her legs are around him and he's scrabbling to find the hem of her nightgown and ruck it up higher, but it's not working and if either of them loses complete focus on keeping her back against this wall it's going to end in a lot of pain for her. She gives up on his shirt, slides her hands up his biceps to his shoulder and winds her arms around his neck before carefully, oh-so-carefully so she doesn't startle him, unlocking her ankles from the small of his back and reaching one leg down towards the floor.

He lets out a whine and she doesn't think she's ever been this turned on before.

"Jonathan," she says, moving her mouth from his lips to his cheek and then his jaw and then there, right there, where that little vampire bite is, and she's about to fulfill that fantasy when he gets his hands under her clothing and splays his fingers across her stomach, just above her underwear. She forgets everything except the way his index finger is teasing that elastic border, a threat and a promise all at the same time. Her hips rock towards him as the silence stretches, and he flicks the elastic once before sliding his hands upwards, spanning her ribcage now, just barely brushing the undersides of her breasts.

"Nancy," he echoes, voice rough and wanting, and she never wants to hear it any other way again. If this is the only time they do this – and god, she hopes it isn't – she knows this voice will haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

She has a limited bag of tricks but they're good tricks, so she slides her lips up to his earlobe and bites down softly before whispering, "Bed."

He'll deny it until his dying day, but she swears he growls.

He is thin, so lean, but he is _strong_. He somehow picks her up, moves her halfway across the room, and deposits her onto the bed in a single motion. From this angle she can get to his shirt properly, tugs it up under his armpits and runs her fingers over his stomach, impossibly smooth and impossibly taut. Everything about him seems impossible to her, impossible that he should be real, that he should be here, that he should be hers.

Well.

She thinks he might, if she asks him.

He's kneeling between her legs and rears back to pull his shirt off and toss it behind him. She wonders, briefly, if this would be different somewhere else – if the rubber band between them hadn't been pulled tight by two days on the road together, half a dozen strangers prying into their feelings for each other, half a bottle of vodka and the thrill of bringing down a government conspiracy running through their veins before the aforementioned conspiracy theorist decided to play Yenta. If this was back in her bedroom, or his, would there be questions and soft touches and quiet confessions instead of this raw need? This flashpoint sparking over into flame?

Would it be any more them, any more right, if there were?

But he's looking at her, hungry and a little vulnerable, and she remembers he wanted her nightgown off just as much as she wanted him to lose the shirt, and she's more than happy to oblige.

She doesn't take her time, just whips it over her head, but the look on his face when she can see again is more than worth it.

"Nancy—" he says again, trails off like he had more on his mind but has forgotten all his words. She knows the feeling as she reaches for him once more.

He doesn't kiss her properly this time, goes straight for her neck and then lower, lower, down her sternum and to the right, gently exploring one breast with his mouth and the other with his hand. She arches, can't help it, and breathes out an affirmative as she tangles one hand in his hair and lets the other roam as far as she can reach. It's not very far, he keeps moving lower, not staying in one place for too long, and her hips are moving in little circles, trying to beckon him closer. It seems to be working as his tongue traces patterns around her navel.

She becomes aware that she's speaking, whimpering softly, _please_ and _yes_ and his name, _Jonathan, Jonathan._ She's never called him Jon, nobody ever has, and even though that'd be _easier_ to say through the thick fog in her head it doesn't seem right. The three syllables of his name form a tumbling cadence, almost like a song, and it's easy, so easy, to just stay in that rhythm. She wonders what song their names will make together, if they'll match the movement of their hips to that rhythm, if she'll ever like another song more.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to her inner thigh and it startles her out of her thoughts and right back into the present, even as her hips move on their own accord. She cranes her neck and he's looking up at her, just his eyes and the wild thicket of his hair visible above her body. She thinks the questions in her own eyes must look a lot like the ones in his.

"Nancy," he says again, but he sounds too steady when he says it, and he's drawing up onto his knees, not moving his mouth closer to where she really, _really_ wants it. He keeps his fingertips on her knees but pulls the rest of his body away from her and it's her turn to whine, to whisper, _no_ as he disengages. They're both breathing heavily and she thinks she can see him trembling in the dim light.

"Wait," she says, pushing herself up on one elbow. "Jonathan, what—"

"We haven't—"

"What do you mean—"

"We should talk—"

"In the morning."

"Nancy, we should think—"

" _Jonathan,_ " she cuts him, off, rising to her knees in front of him, mirroring him, and studiously ignoring how much more naked she is than him. Watches his eyes flick to her bare chest for a fraction of a second before resolutely meeting her own again. "I don't want to think. I want you. I want _this._ Do you?"

He swallows hard before answering.

"Yes."

"Then," she shuffles closer so they're almost touching again, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him, "let's _talk_ in the _morning_."

She braces herself with one hand on his chest, just like she did last Christmas in her front hallway, but this time her lips land on his like she really wanted back then. This time there's no clothing between them, no newly-taken-back boyfriend in the next room, no parents and siblings hovering. There's nothing to stop her from teasing his mouth open with her tongue, nothing to stop him from wrapping his arms around her and hauling her tight against him. Nothing to stop her hands from teasing the waistband of his pajama pants, nothing to hold them back from falling right back onto the mattress and pressing every single inch of their bodies together. Nothing to stop them from anything.

Good. She doesn't want to stop.

Their fingers battle over skin and fabric, each pair of hands after its own agenda, sometimes working together, sometimes working against. He gets her underwear off while she's still working a hand into his boxers, and she thinks he murmurs a compliment to her flexibility into her mouth for the way she twists herself to help him. She's not sure because he presses a finger into her and she sees stars.

The chuckle that pulls out of him is unmistakable and she grasps him in return, pumping her fist once as revenge. That gets a strangled moan, makes her feel powerful.

When she finally manages to get his pants all the way off and settles him between her legs he pulls back, wild-eyed and nervous. 

"I, uh," he starts, stops, presses his lips together. It takes her a moment to realize he's blushing.

"What?" she tries to keep her voice gentle, even as her arousal and desire make her want to scream.

"I haven't—not this," he manages. Looks away. She giggles and reaches for him, feels relief when he lowers himself back over her and kisses her. She just wants him to keep kissing her, maybe forever.

"It's fine," she says against his mouth, against his cheeks. "You like music. You know rhythm. Just keep a beat."

"What about—" He bites down on her bottom lip this time, distracted, but when she lifts her hips and they slide against each other he seems to come back to himself. "I don't have a condom." 

"It's fine," she says again.

One week after her best friend disappeared and she lost her virginity to the school's prom king and went monster hunting with a loner boy she thinks she might have fallen in love with, Nancy's mother had picked her up from school, driven her to a doctor's office, and sat with her through the most embarrassing exam and interview Nancy had ever lived through. They had left with a prescription, and half an hour later, she had taken the first little white pill while her mother watched with soft eyes. _You're a smart, responsible girl,_ her mother had said, then corrected herself. _Woman. A smart, responsible woman. Stay that way_. 

Jonathan is looking at her, unsure, and she cups his cheek with one hand.

"I promise. It's fine."

"I'll pull out," he assures her and she lets it go. She doesn't want to have a conversation about birth control right now. She just wants him inside her.

To that end she reaches between them, takes him in hand, guides him to where he belongs. He pulls back just a little, stares down at her. His eyes are darker than she's ever seen them, almost all pupil framed by the barest ring of brown, and she holds his gaze steadily as he sinks into her for the first time.

"Oh _fuck—_ " she hears and realizes belatedly she's the one who said it.

One of his arms slides under her, holding her closer as they adjust to each other. She feels him everywhere, somehow huge inside her and all around her, and wonders if she feels as all-encompassing to him. She hopes she does.

Her eyes have closed without her permission and she opens them again to see him looking down at her with a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and an expression she can't quite read.

Then he moves, just a little, experimentally. Sparks fly over her skin and she moans softly. Remembers they're not in their homes, not in their beds, and while that means their parents can't catch them it also means a near-stranger can, and bites her lip to keep quiet. He moves again, rocking gently, and drops his head to the crook of her neck. Gasps her name. She whispers his in return, a confirmation.

"Please," she says, moving her hands to his hips and pulling on him. "Jonathan, _please_."

" _Yes_ ," he answers, and she thinks he might mean more than just this.

Then he begins to move in earnest and she's lost.

+++

They can't seem to stop kissing.

The room is lighter now, dawn just breaking she thinks, but she has no sense of time beyond the count of their heartbeats and the lengths of their breaths. She is exhausted, loose-limbed and utterly satisfied. Her eyelids feel like lead and she can barely keep them open but she just can't seem to move her mouth far enough away from his to sleep.

She tries, but he follows, catching her lips, pulling her closer. They are tangled together as they've been for hours, only breaking apart once to grab a fistful of tissues and clean up the mess he left on her belly.

His leg moves against hers, and he puffs out a soft laugh against her cheek.

"What?" she murmurs. His leg moves again and this time she feels it, his toe catching on the cuff of her sock.

"You've still got socks on."

"Oh," she giggles. "I forgot."

"Nance," he sighs and kisses her again, long and languid, then pulls back. She manages to crack her eyes open and look at him. Sort of.

"It's morning," he says.

"Hmm?" She's not sure what that has to do with anything.

"We need to talk."

"Mmm," she frowns. Closes her eyes. Buries her face in his neck. "In the morning."

"It is morning," he repeats.

"It's not morning 'til after you sleep," she argues. It's true. The sun might be coming up but it's still night if you haven't gone to sleep.

"Oh, so that's just a very bright moon?"

She smacks his chest half-heartedly. "Smart ass."

"Nancy," he tries again, shifts into a slightly more sitting-like position. She whines, tries to keep him lying down. They compromise at an odd tilt and she's managed to get herself even more on top of him, her arms folded on his chest, face craned towards his and reaching for another kiss. He indulges her for only a second before dropping his head back against the pillow and looking at her from under hooded eyelids.

"What are we doing?" he asks.

"Uh," she wiggles her hips a little bit, her bare skin moving on his. "Well."

She knows she's trying to deflect, but she doesn't really want to talk. She doesn't want to leave this little bubble of them and go back to reality.

"And when we get out of this bed?" he presses. "When we leave here, and go back to Hawkins? What happens?"

She sighs and rests her cheek on her stacked hands, staring at his bare chest. He's so pale, he seems to glow in the dim light.

"I don't know," she admits. "I know what I want, but I don't know what's going to happen."

"You do?"

"Do what?"

"Know what you want?"

"Well, yeah," she rolls her eyes. "You don't think I hop into bed with every passing notion, do you?" 

She bounces a little on his chest as he chuckles but she doesn't feel like laughing. Something in her stomach is drawing tight and heavy. A sinking feeling. Slowly his hand comes up and starts to comb through her hair. It's a soothing motion and she can't help but relax.

"I knew you were waiting," he admits quietly and she draws in a sharp breath. "I knew, but there wasn't anything I could do. Will needed me. My mom needed me. My family—I can't just leave them on their own. We're a team. We all come together."

"A box set. I know," she says, unable to stop her thoughts from drifting to Mike, to how sad he's been, how hard to comfort. Or, she thinks he's been hard to comfort. She wonders now if she really put in the effort.

"Do you?" Jonathan presses. "Will… he's still not all right. He still has nightmares, and flashbacks. He still crawls into my bed in the middle of the night. I can't… I still have to be there for him. For Mom. She's got Bob, but still."

"I know," she repeats.

"Nancy. You'll still have to wait."

She looks up at him again, and there's something horribly pained on his face.

"No," she says softly. "I won't."

"What—"

"You don't have to do everything alone, Jonathan. We'll do it together."

Something flashes across his face, like a memory, or maybe like hope. _Trust issues_ , she thinks. _Trust issues and retreat. Well, I don't retreat. Not anymore._

"Nancy—"

"Jonathan," she cuts him off, raises herself up so their faces are closer together. She can feel his heart beating under her forearm. "Can't you just trust me? Trust that I'll be there for you?"

"What about Steve?" he challenges, raising an eyebrow. She glares.

"What _about_ Steve?"

"He's back in Hawkins, too."

"We broke up."

"Does _he_ know that?" His tone outrages her but he cuts her off before she can respond. "We went from talking about Tina's Halloween party on the hood of my car to launching a plan to bring down the lab. Did you even call him and tell him you were leaving?"

She sighs and drops back down on his chest, fingers tapping out an asymmetrical rhythm on his sternum. His hand returns to her hair, but doesn't stroke, just rests against the back of her head.

"I don't love him," she says softly. "I tried. All year, I tried. For him, for me, for… Barb. To make it worth it. To make sure she didn't die for… nothing."

"Nancy, that's not your fau—"

"I know it's not my fault. But it _feels_ like my fault. It's never going to stop feeling like it's my fault. Ever."

They're both quiet. She shifts, puts her ear to his chest, listens to his heart. Its beat is so steady.

"But she'd never let me do this," she murmurs, words coming without effort, without hesitation. She needs him to know. "She'd rip me a new one for staying with Steve after I fell for someone else."

His chest stills. He's holding his breath. When she finally looks up at him he no longer looks sleepy. His eyes are wide, and bright, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"What if…" he starts, but just lets it trail off. She knows all the different endings of that question. She's turned them over in her head for a year now. She doesn't care anymore. No more running.

"I want to try," she says, sliding up so their noses are touching and their lips brush together with each word. "I don’t know if it'll work, but I think it might. I want it to. I've never wanted anything as much as I want this."

For a moment he's completely still and then suddenly she's on her back and his mouth is on hers, hot and wet and her blood is on fire again.

"Do you?" she asks between kisses, needing to know. Needing to hear.

"Yes," he breathes, scrapes his teeth on her collarbone. "I want to try. I want—Nancy, I want _everything_."

"Me too," she smiles into his neck. He pulls back, braces himself on one forearm so he can use his other hand to tilt her chin up until she's looking him in the eye.

"Good," he says and kisses her like she is something precious, slow and delicate and deep. Her blood sings.

"We should probably get some sleep," she murmurs, smoothing her hands down his back until she finds the curve of his bum. Grips it, pulls him a little closer. He reaches down, grabs her left hand with his and pins it next to the pillow beside her head. Scar on scar.

"Probably," he agrees.

They don't.

+++

He's worried. She watches him load their overnight bags into the trunk of his car, tucking the bottles of vodka and water into them for safekeeping, and she can see the tension in his neck and shoulders. Can see the muscles in his jaw clench and the pulse underneath those two little moles, that vampire bite.

She fits herself to his side after he slams the trunk closed, puts her arm around his waist. He wraps his around her shoulders.

"I know you're worried," she says softly. He looks somewhere to the left, over her head, away from her eyes.

"They're fine," he says for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes. Trying to convince himself.

"I'm right here," she reminds him.

Reality is crashing back far too quickly, but there's nothing they can do to stop it. Instead she remembers her urge from the night before, one that got lost in all the other touches and tastes and words, and lifts up on her toes. Fits her teeth over the two moles, then presses a kiss to them. It's a perfect fit.

He's startled by the action and it pulls a breathy laugh from him as he looks down at her. One more lift of her toes and their lips press together for a long, still moment.

Then she drops down and away, releases him. He reluctantly lets her go, too.

"Let's go home," she says, and climbs in the passenger side.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, mood, story all taken from/inspired by ["The Only Time" by Nine Inch Nails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3aLqKnTuHs), which may be the most ridiculously Jancy song ever written, at least as far as Season 2 Episiode 6 goes. Don't let the band put you off -- click that and listen to it. It's a perfect late 80s pop tune with some of the funniest and best lyrics EVER. 
> 
> Pretty Hate Machine didn't come out until 1989, which is about when Nancy and Jonathan would be graduating from college, and it's definitely a fact that Jonathan bought the album and took it home to their apartment. Nancy definitely made fun of him for some of it, for the sharper edges and rebellious lyrics, but when that song came on they both stopped teasing each other and remembered back to Murray Bauman and his weird spare bedroom and later that night when they're in bed together Jonathan enjoys the pull out again, just for old time's sake. 
> 
> All of that is true. Come at me.


End file.
